She sat down in her considering-chair to-day, to think about Adelaide Marchbanks’s invitation.

The two Marchbanks houses were very gay this summer.  The married daughter of one family—­Mrs. Reyburne—­was at home from New York, and had brought a very fascinating young Mrs. Van Alstyne with her.  Roger Marchbanks, at the other house, had a couple of college friends visiting him; and both places were merry with young girls,—­several sisters in each family,—­always.  The Haddens were there a good deal, and there were people from the city frequently, for a few days at a time.  Mrs. Linceford was staying at the Haddens, and Leslie Goldthwaite, a great pet of hers,—­Mr. Aaron Goldthwaite’s daughter, in the town,—­was often up among them all.

The Holabirds were asked in to tea-drinkings, and to croquet, now and then, especially at the Haddens’, whom they knew best; but they were not on “in and out” terms, from morning to night, as these others were among themselves; for one thing, the little daily duties of their life would not allow it.  The “jolly times” on the Hill were a kind of Elf-land to them, sometimes patent and free, sometimes shrouded in the impalpable and impassable mist that shuts in the fairy region when it wills to be by itself for a time.

There was one little simple sesame which had a power this way for them, perhaps without their thinking of it; certainly it was not spoken of directly when the invitations were given and accepted.  Ruth’s fingers had a little easy, gladsome knack at music; and I suppose sometimes it was only Ruth herself who realized how thoroughly the fingers earned the privilege of the rest of her bodily presence.  She did not mind; she was as happy playing as Rosamond and Barbara dancing; it was all fair enough; everybody must be wanted for something; and Ruth knew that her music was her best thing.  She wished and meant it to be; Ruth had plans in her head which her fingers were to carry out.

But sometimes there was a slight flavor in attention, that was not quite palatable, even to Ruth’s pride.  These three girls had each her own sort of dignity.  Rosamond’s measured itself a good deal by the accepted dignity of others; Barbara’s insisted on its own standard; why shouldn’t they—­the Holabirds—­settle anything?  Ruth hated to have theirs hurt; and she did not like subserviency, or courting favor.  So this morning she was partly disturbed and partly puzzled by what had happened.

Adelaide Marchbanks had overtaken her on the hill, on her way “down street” to do some errand, and had walked on with her very affably.  At parting she had said to her, in an off-hand, by-the-way fashion,—­

“Ruth, why won’t you come over to-night, and take tea?  I should like you to hear Mrs. Van Alstyne sing, and she would like your playing.  There won’t be any company; but we’re having pretty good times now among ourselves.”

Ruth knew what the “no company” meant; just that there was no regular inviting, and so no slight in asking her alone, out of her family; but she knew the Marchbanks parlors were always full of an evening, and that the usual set would be pretty sure to get together, and that the end of it all would be an impromptu German, for which she should play, and that the Marchbanks’s man would be sent home with her at eleven o’clock.